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‘Zachary should never have recruited him. His abrasive personality does nothing to make our University more popular among the townsfolk.’
    ‘He is not an easy man, which is why I must be there tomorrow, to make sure everything goes smoothly.’ Bartholomew sighed ruefully. ‘And to ensure that he and Rougham do not teach my lads a lot of nonsense. I should have refused when they made the offer, but I did not want to offend the only two other medici in the University.’
    ‘Your boys are more than capable of distinguishing the intelligent from the twaddle, and I need you. Besides, you always object to lending a hand but we both know you will do it in the end. We go through the same charade every time there is a suspicious death.’
    ‘I do not—’ began Bartholomew indignantly.
    ‘Just agree to help me, Matt,’ said Michael testily. ‘It will save us both a lot of trouble.’
    Bartholomew knew the monk was right, although it galled him to admit it. He leaned against the wall and kicked moodily at the cobbles, resenting the loss of precious teaching time. Then there was a loud clatter from the dyeworks, followed by a rank smell that grew stronger with every breath. He detected the distinct tang of old urine, mixed unpleasantly with brimstone and something so powerful that he wondered if it was melting his lungs.
    He and Michael were not the only ones who thought the dyeworks should move away from the town, and dozens of people had gathered to protest when Edith had first opened her doors. Most had given up when they realised the place was there to stay, but a few diehards persisted. That day, they comprised a handful of scholars from the nearby hostels, who claimed the fumes were distracting them from their studies, and an equal number from the town, who objected to the fact that laws had been twisted to allow Edith to start the business in the first place.
    Bartholomew watched them wave their fists as the reek rolled out, although it was not long before the angry voices turned against each other – the two sides might have a common cause, but they still could not bring themselves to join forces. All he hoped was that the dyeworks would not provide the spark that would ignite the latest trouble that was bubbling.
    It was some time before the brewery door was hauled open – by a great bear of a man who wore a sleeveless leather tunic that revealed hairy shoulders; his features were blunt and pugilistic.
    ‘You again,’ he said coolly to Michael. ‘What now?’
    ‘We bring sad news, Shirwynk,’ said Michael kindly. ‘May we come in?’
    ‘If you must,’ replied Shirwynk ungraciously. ‘Although no decent townsman likes having scholar-scum on his property, so say your piece quick and get out.’
    He turned and stalked inside, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to follow as they would. The place smelled strongly but not unpleasantly of barley and yeast, and was full of the huge vats used to ferment ale. A lad of eighteen or nineteen lounged against one. He was unshaven, dour-faced, and he looked like the kind of youth who would find fault with everything. He scowled at the scholars and spat, narrowly missing Bartholomew’s foot.
    ‘My son Peyn,’ said Shirwynk, nodding towards him with obvious pride. ‘He is going to Westminster soon, to work in the Treasury.’
    ‘Is he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Such posts were highly sought after, and the slovenly Peyn did not look like the kind of person who would appeal to the fastidious and exacting officials who ran the country’s finances.
    ‘Yes,’ said Shirwynk tightly, sensing an insult in the response. ‘Now what do you want?’
    ‘It is Frenge,’ began Michael, but then could not resist taking the opportunity to fish for information before breaking the news. ‘Do you know where he might be?’
    ‘We are not his keepers,’ replied Peyn insolently. ‘All we can tell you is that he went out just after terce – five hours ago now – to deliver ale